Births, Deaths, Marriages and Partnerships
by Mindy35
Summary: GALEX. Post-ep for 2.02, that draws on 2.01 and 2.05 as well. Gene and Alex get personal.


Rating: K+, alcohol use and shameless flirtation  
Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose  
Spoilers: Basic stuff, through to mid-s2  
Pairing: Gene/Alex  
Summary: Post-ep for 2.02, that draws on 2.01 and 2.05 as well. Gene and Alex get personal.  
A/N: Because when it comes down to it, I'm a simple fangirl and all I really want is more of Gene and Alex talking, flirting and getting drunk together at Luigi's…

* * *

"So you did…all that, with the, ah…and the, er…"

Alex looked up from her pasta, watched him make a parting gesture with his hands. Gene followed this with a vague swooping gesture, accompanied by a pained, reluctant expression.

"Well, I know this isn't covered in _Just Jugs_ ," she said, leaning across the candlelit table, "but it is the natural progression of things. Sex leads to pregnancy, pregnancy to birth."

Gene lent back in his chair. "Oright, no need to be facetious, was just askin'."

"Not, it must be said, that I gave birth in the middle of parkland," she went on as she swirled some tagliatelle on her fork, "and not that my labour was as easy as Alva's."

Gene looked aghast. "That was easy?"

Alex lifted her loaded fork to her mouth then lowered it again. "Oh, you have no idea. I was in labour with Molly for over twenty hours."

"Blimey." He shifted in his seat, glanced to one side. "It's a wonder you were ever able to sit down again."

"Worth it, though." She slurped several strands of pasta, licked the creamy sauce from her lips. "Worth every sweat bead, every contraction. Worth the weird food cravings and swollen ankles and sleepless nights. All of it."

Gene sipped his beer, eyed her a moment. "So who was with you then, holdin' your hand as you sweated and panted and pushed the little tyke out through y' nethers?"

She inhaled through her nose, gave a tight nod. "The father was there. He was good." She stabbed her food with her fork a few times before adding dryly, "Was only later that he buggered off, leaving me with a six-month-old to raise alone."

"Bastard," Gene commented.

She glanced up at him. "You can say that again."

"'Kay, I will. Bastard." He hunkered in closer, folding his elbows atop the rickety table. "Bet you were brilliant at it though. The whole motherin' thing." He took a sip, took a beat and added with characteristic bluntness, "You've got the naggin' bit down anyway."

Alex quirked an eyebrow, ingested another mouthful. Then enquired, head tilted and tone tentative, "You, ah…never considered children yourself?"

"I considered 'em plenty," he told her, rousing himself in his rolled shirtsleeves and loosened tie. "Can't deprive the world of genes like Gene's. Unfortunately, the ex-missus was more interested in visitin' other bloke's beds than she was in settin' up house as Suzy Homemaker."

Alex hummed and chewed. "Explains a lot."

"Does it now?" His body straightened and eyes flashed. He lifted his glass, downed the last of his beer then lowered the thing to the table with an indignant thud. "Well, I'm glad that little factoid fits into the Gene Hunt profile you're buildin' in that interferin' mind of yours."

Her lips parted, her eyes blinked contritely. "That…wasn't what I meant. And…she's a fool. Any woman would…"

He frowned as he waited for her to finish her sentence. "Would what?"

"I…" she looked down, shook her head, "don't know, lost my train of thought."

Gene humphed. And stole a scallop from her plate with his fingers. "So exactly 'ow big did you get? Or, more importantly," he waved the scallop at her chest before popping it in his mouth, "how big did _they_ get, because you've already got a decent set of—"

She held up a hand. "Stop."

His eyes widened as he munched. "Wha', over the line?"

Her eyes widened further. " _Is_ there a line, with you?"

Gene shrugged and stole another scallop. Alex pushed her fork into her half-finished meal, dabbed her mouth with her napkin. A melancholy melody began to circulate in the benign, late-night atmosphere of the trattoria. A large party of seven was waved off by Luigi, their departure causing the noise level to noticeably dip. Reaching for her wineglass, Alex sipped the sweet white wine and felt her mood likewise dip.

"I wish I had a picture," she murmured, thinking of that faceless girl in the empty corridor. "Something to…something to show you."

Gene nodded, eyes narrowing at her. "She look like you, your little girl?"

"Sometimes," she replied, voice just above a whisper.

"And she talk like you? Like she's the smartest, funniest, most important person in the room?"

Alex smiled, eyes moistening. "Can't shut her up."

"Like mother, like daughter." He reached for the unopened bottle of red, the fresh glasses Luigi had already provided them with. "Which means she'll be fine, right?" He eased the cork from the lip of the bottle and threw it onto her plate. "If she takes after you, Bols. She'll be a fighter, a survivor, your, ah…Molly, isn't it?"

Her spine straightened at the name, the sound of it on his tongue, the tangible reality of its utterance. "Molly. Yeah."

"Right then." He poured her a glass and handed it across. "'Ave another drink and tell me all about this whole sex-pregnancy-birth routine, only stick to the first step."

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine. "You know, this juvenile fascination of yours with all things libidinous only reflects the lurid depravity of your mind—"

"You were the one that brought it up."

"—as well as highlighting the fact that, as far as I am aware, you haven't gotten any in a very, very long time."

He poured his own glass, tipped it defiantly at her. "Shows what you know."

Her eyes flicked over him. "Well…just remember to practise safe sex or you'll be delivering a lot more Eileens."

"What a ridiculous notion. When is sex ever safe? If it's safe, you're not doin' it right."

"If you mean emotionally safe—"

"I don't, no!" He dropped back in his seat, one hand falling to his thigh with a slap of exasperation. "Why is it whenever men start talkin' sex, women start talkin' emotions? What's emotions got to do with anythin'?"

"Guess we're just a bunch of hopeless romantics."

"That so?"

Alex shrugged, lowering her glass to the table with a sigh. "Don't ask me, I'm just the psychologist."

"Well, alert the bloody press," he muttered beneath his breath, "we've finally reached the beverage threshold at which the brain expert has nothin' more to say."

"You know, _you_ —" She stabbed a finger at him.

He glanced aside. "Oop, no. Spoke too soon."

"—would make a terrible father." She lifted her glass, took a long sip then added as an afterthought: "Either that or a really, _really_ good one."

Gene sniffed and leaned in. "You offerin', Bols? To carry my sturdy Northern seed?"

Her eyes lifted to his in surprise, the corners of her mouth twitching into a half-smile. "I'm not sure that way my future lies."

His head tipped back. "No?"

She spoke and laughed at the same time. "No-ho."

He gave a humph, examined her a moment then made a grab for her hand. "Give us a look."

Alex let her arm stretch across the table, let him pull her hand through the maze of condiments, candles, bottles and glasses. She let him turn it over, bending over her palm with a mock-serious frown. "…Well?"

Gene looked up, weighing her hand in mid-air like it was an insubstantial forensic file. "I'm getting nothin' from this."

Her brows rose. "Not even a tall, dark, handsome stranger?"

"Definitely none o' them," he answered sharply.

"Well, he wouldn't have to be all three," she said, spreading her palm in his in invitation. "Even two out of three would suffice."

Gene looked again, pressed his thumb to her mount of Venus. "All I see 'ere is your next drink. Which will be tall, red and bought by yours truly."

He ditched her hand, but it remained outstretched. "Let's take a look at yours then."

He shifted forward and back in his chair before slapping his hand into her open palm. "This part of your continuin' efforts to infiltrate my thick skull, Doctor Drake?"

"Well, you don't have to be such a closed book all the bloody time now, do you?"

"Me? A closed book? I'm an open book! What y'see is what y'get with Gene Hunt."

She gripped his hand, eyes on his face rather than his palm. "Tell me _one thing_ then. One true, significant thing about yourself, about your life."

His hand squirmed in her grasp. "Like wot?"

"Like…" she lifted a shoulder, gaze drifting about as she spoke, "what you loved most about your wife. Why you joined the police force. Why you _really_ left Manchester."

His throat cleared and eyes tapered. "…One thing?"

She dipped her chin. "Just one."

"That _you_ ," the hand in hers came to life, pointing at her insistently, "will take to your grave."

Alex released it. Then, crossing her heart with one finger, she held up her hand in a solemn vow. "Cross my heart, hope to die."

Gene lowered his gaze, rotating his glass on the table a few moments before speaking. "That bird Mac was screwin'."

She nodded. "The one who asked if you'd ever been in love."

"Well, I 'ave." He looked up, met her eyes. "Once. And it was _not_ ," he lifted his glass to his lips, "with the ex-Mrs Hunt."

She watched him drink, waiting for more. "…That's all I'm getting?"

"That's all you're gettin'," he muttered, reaching for the wine bottle and refilling both their glasses.

She watched, silent.

"What about you?" he asked after a moment. "You were married, weren't y'? You love yours?"

"Oh yeah," she sighed, nodding her head then shaking it, "Very much. A little too much, in fact."

Gene took out his cigarette case, selected a thin cigar. "Tall, dark an' handsome, was 'e?"

"The trifecta," she muttered into her glass. "And didn't he know it…"

"That your type then, Bols?" He lit the cigarillo, let the fire take before removing it from his mouth and completing his question. "Tall, dark, 'andsome and full of 'imself?"

"Well, I'm a tall girl," she shrugged a shoulder. "Most tall girls like tall men."

He exhaled a smoky breath. "Why's that?"

Alex lifted her brows, opened her mouth a moment before answering. "Evolutionary psychologists would say it harks back to a primal need for protection, a buried instinct to attract a strong mate."

Gene tapped his cigar against the ashtray. "Didn't protect you though, did 'e? Didn't look after you like he should've."

"No." She fingered the stem of her wineglass, voice low and slow and sad. "No, he didn't. He let me down."

He took a slow drag, contemplating her through the haze. "Don't worry, Bols. Not all the tall blokes will."

"No." She lifted her head, met his gaze. "I know that now."

"Makes sense though." He waved his cigar in the air. "Psychologically speakin'."

Her voice and eyes turned incredulous. "Excuse me?"

"Well, s'where those deep-seated trust issues of yours come from, init?"

She leaned forward, brows furrowed in a frown even as her lips curved in a smile. "Are you attempting to infiltrate my skull, DCI Hunt?"

He smiled and leaned in also. "We're rubbin' off on each other, you an' me."

"I'd noticed."

"Starting to think like each other, talk like each other…"

"Complete each other's sentences."

"'Xactly."

She hummed, her eyes drifting over his face. "What do you think it means?"

"What do you think it means?" he countered, his eyes drifting over her face.

She dropped her gaze, reached for her wineglass. "I think…it means…we are no longer adversaries." She held it between them as she proposed: "We're partners."

Gene took up his glass, "I'll drink to that—" and chinked it with hers. "'Specially if it means you're gonna quit givin' me such an 'ard time."

Her incredulity returned as she watched him drink. "Me give _you_ a hard time? It's you that's always giving _me_ a hard time."

He plonked his glass down. "I do not."

"You _do_."

"Do not."

"Do!" She extended a beseeching hand as Luigi passed by with a tray of spent glasses. "Luigi—!"

Luigi held up his free hand, muttering in tired resignation, "I not get involved. And, Signor Hunt, Signorina Drake, in case you had not noticed," he gestured at the empty trattoria, the extinguished candles and stripped tables, "I am closed for the night."

They peered around to find they were the only remaining customers in the place. Their table alone still held plates and glasses and corks and mess. The lilting Italian music had ceased to play and the smell of bleach had replaced the twin smells of tomato and garlic. A stack of bills was piled on the bar, waiting for Luigi to calculate the day's takings.

"Ah. Right." Gene turned his gaze back on his dinner companion.

"We could…" Alex tilted her head at the stairway leading upstairs.

He pushed back his chair, stuck his smoke between his teeth and headed for the bar. "We'll take a couple of bottles of chianti to go then."

"Help yourself," Luigi muttered, shrugging his weary shoulders. "You always do..."

He set down his tray and began adding their collection of glasses to it. Alex rose, dropped her napkin onto the table and opened her mouth to apologise for them once again commandeering a corner of his business.

"Right then, Mrs Woman." Gene returned from behind the bar with a bottle in each hand and his cigar dripping ash from his fingers to Luigi's carpet. "Shall we continue this conversation upstairs?"

She joined him at the bar, allowed him to usher her towards the stairwell. But both of them stopped, slowly turning and raising their brows, as they heard Luigi muttering behind their backs:

"Talk, talk, talk. All you two ever do is talk, talk, talk, bicker, bicker, bicker, flirty, flirty, flirt, when what you _really_ want to do is—" The old man came to an abrupt halt as he turned to his tray and noticed their identical, incredulous expressions. He smiled meekly beneath his moustache. "'Tis not my business."

Gene grunted. "That's right. It's not!" He nudged Alex's side with his elbow. "In your own time then, Lady B."

Alex sent Luigi a small, slightly tipsy smile, "'G'night, Luigi." Then continued on her path, Gene following close behind. Piling his tray high, Luigi continued his vexed muttering once he heard the stairs creak under their weight of their ascent. He rolled his eyes upwards as their bickering resumed on the landing.

"Eh…" he moaned as he lifted his tray and headed for the kitchen, " _Dio li fa e pil li accoppia._ "

 _END._

(A/N2: For those who don't speak Luigi, his last words translate to: God makes them and then mates them – meaning it's a match made in heaven because they're both so strange that they deserve each other).


End file.
